I peered through the palm forest. In the distance, I thought I saw a clearing with a few clumps of mud brick sticking above the grass like rotten teeth.
I pointed them out to Walt. “The remains of a temple?”
Walt must have felt the same instinct for stealth that I did. He crouched in the grass, trying to lower his profile. Then he glanced back nervously at Philip of Macedonia. “Maybe we shouldn’t have a three-thousand-pound crocodile trampling through the woods with us.”
“Agreed,” I said.
He whispered a command word. Philip shrank back to a small wax statuette. Walt pocketed our croc, and we began sneaking toward the ruins.
The closer we got, the more bees filled the air. When we arrived at the clearing, we found an entire colony swarming like a living carpet over a cluster of crumbling mud-brick walls.
Next to them, sitting on a weathered block of stone, a woman leaned on a bow, sketching in the dirt with an arrow.
She was beautiful in a severe way—thin and pale with high cheekbones, sunken eyes, and arched eyebrows, like a supermodel walking the line between glamorous and malnourished. Her hair was glossy black, braided on either side with flint arrowheads. Her haughty expression seemed to say: I’m much too cool to even look at you.
There was nothing glamorous about her clothes, however. She was dressed for the hunt in desert-colored fatigues—beige, brown, and ochre. Several knives hung from her belt. A quiver was strapped to her back, and her bow looked like quite a serious weapon—polished wood carved with hieroglyphs of power.
Most disturbing of all, she seemed to be waiting for us.
“You’re noisy,” she complained. “I could’ve killed you a dozen times already.”
I glanced at Walt, then back at the huntress. “Um…thanks? For not killing us, I mean.”
The woman snorted. “Don’t thank me. You’ll have to do better than that if you want to survive.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, but generally speaking, I don’t ask heavily armed women to elaborate on such statements.
Walt pointed to the symbol the huntress was drawing in the dirt—an oval with four pointy bits like legs.
“You’re Neith,” Walt guessed. “That’s your symbol—the shield with crossed arrows.”
The goddess raised her eyebrows. “Think much? Of course I’m Neith. And, yes, that’s my symbol.”
“It looks like a bug,” I said.
“It’s not a bug!” Neith glowered. Behind her, the bees became agitated, crawling over the mud bricks.
“You’re right,” I decided. “Not a bug.”
Walt wagged his finger as if he’d just had a thought. “The bees…I remember now. That was one name for your temple—the House of the Bee.”
“Bees are tireless hunters,” Neith said. “Fearless warriors. I like bees.”
“Uh, who doesn’t?” I offered. “Charming little…buzzers. But you see, we’re here on a mission.”
I began to explain about Bes and his shadow.
Neith cut me off with a wave of her arrow. “I know why you’re here. The others told me.”
I moistened my lips. “The others?”
“Russian magicians,” she said. “They were terrible prey. After that, a few demons came by. They weren’t much better. They all wanted to kill you.”
I moved a step closer to Walt. “I see. And so you—”
“Destroyed them, of course,” Neith said.
Walt made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a whimper. “Destroyed them because…they were evil?” he said hopefully. “You knew the demons and those magicians were working for Apophis, right? It’s a conspiracy.”